


The Reunion

by IdrisSmith



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ahoy Matey!, F/M, Non-Series Four Compliant, Sherlolly - Freeform, Various ships, case-fic, mary is alive, she will never die, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9280322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdrisSmith/pseuds/IdrisSmith
Summary: Molly never dreaded her choice of career or the choices she had made in her life. But when an invitation to her secondary school reunion arrived in the mail, she began to wonder if she had made all the right choices in life. She was thirty-eight and she was alone, if you didn’t count her tabby cat as company. Sure, she had made marvelous discoveries and made a name for herself in her field; yet she couldn’t help but feel displeased at how her life was going.





	1. Past, Present, Future

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, [Kate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vertual/pseuds/vertual) is a champ. And second, I wrote this last year, never got around to actually work on the story progression until like yesterday. There would be a lot of errors and considering it's me, probably inconsistency. Third, this is obviously not series four compliant since I haven't watched series four. Though, considering Molly is 38 in this setting, the story would take place in summer of 2017.
> 
> Fanart courtesy of [Rebka18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebka18/pseuds/Rebka18)

“I’m going to die alone, aren’t I?” she mumbled to Toby, who meowed dully back at her.

 

It was a nice Friday morning until it was ruined by the post. A sigh escaped her lips as she ran her finger over the beautifully decorated cream-coloured invitation. In the age of technology and e-invites, her school still decided to send her a physical copy on top of the one emailed to her. It had intrigued her as to why it was overly important that she was doubly invited, until she visited the alumni website stated in both the email and the physical invite. One name popped up: Alison Goode. If only her name reflected who she was. Well, in all fairness, it was not her maiden name to begin with.

 

No, Alison was never good. The woman was the very reason why Molly couldn’t wait to get out of school, out of town and if she could, get far enough to never hear her name again. If anyone had thought Sherlock was terrible to her (though in his defense he had been nothing of the sort as of late), they clearly had never met Alison. She was tall, pretty, all cheekbones and the epitome of beauty with her dark hair falling down her back. To say Molly hated her was the understatement of the century, and what made it worse was how even time bowed down to her.

 

She closed her laptop with a click. Part of her wanted to ignore the invitation altogether. She could make any sort of excuse. It got lost in the mail or she had never received the electronic message. But even she knew how juvenile that sounded. Above all, she knew not going would be infinitely worse than going. If anything, she understood the power of gossip, after falling victim to it during her last year of school.

 

Right, she thought, another person she really was not looking forward to meet: Shawn Hayes. He was that boy in every secondary school; charming, captain of the football team and on his way to becoming the next legendary player England produced, though Molly didn’t even need to like football to know this never happened. If she could have met her younger self, she could have saved herself from a lot of heartache by telling her that Shawn was all talk with nothing to show for it. An injury during training cut his career short (not that he was spectacular to begin with) and that was the last she heard of him. She was definitely not keeping tabs on him.

 

Gossip, yes. He was the reason she had to endure the last six months of her secondary school years in horrible misery. He was the reason she became the way she was until she met Sherlock; a mousy, quiet girl who had nothing in the ways of confidence. In a way, Sherlock did her a favour by not letting her pity herself. He complimented her when a compliment was due (in his own strange ways, she only realized years later) and refused to baby her over her own shitty choices. It was his brand of kindness and she was grateful for it, even more so now that they were, well, friends.

 

A sharp knock on her door pulled Molly out of her thoughts. She could tell who it was from the impatient rap, and on any other day, she wouldn’t have minded his presence too much. Unfortunately, today was not those days. She was just about ready to go back to bed and bury herself underneath her blanket and never wake up. Still, she knew better not to keep the perpetual man-child waiting. His annoyance would be murderous (no pun intended) and she would never hear the end of it.

 

Slowly, she rose from her sofa, pushing away the mail so it would be hidden from view. She wasn’t even sure why she decided to do that; sticking it to habit as she always did, she supposed. She didn’t need Sherlock to deduce her (though he had not done that in a while either).

 

“Molly, there you are!” Sherlock sounded cheerful, and Molly couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

 

The change in their interaction over the years (and after the actual and proper demise of Moriarty) was apparent to everyone. She was praised for ‘no longer taking his shit’ by many when she was practically the same as before. They didn’t even notice how it was he who had changed. Then again, as Greg had argued, you can’t blame people for that. Sherlock was expected to be an arse just as she was expected to be at his beck and call.

 

“Okay, I know for a fact there’s a pathologist on duty competent enough to help you solve any kind of murder. So, why are you here, Sherlock?” she asked quickly, not bothering with pleasantries. It was never _their_ style; it was _his_ style, and she was starting to pick up after him. Being friends with Sherlock Holmes certainly made for a bad influence.

 

A smirk spread on his face, at which Molly sighed. “No, I’m not going to do you any favour. It’s my day off.” She made to close the door on his face, only to be stopped by his hand.

 

“I brought you breakfast,” he said, holding up a brown paper bag and two cups of take away coffee.

 

Molly arched an eyebrow. “What do you want?”

 

Sherlock should definitely know better by now. She was not the kind to fall for compliments as easily as she did in the past. Time had changed everyone in ways that were surprising – and often welcoming.

 

“I’m bored,” he admitted quite freely, “and Mrs Hudson took my gun.”

 

She shook her head. Well, some things never changed. At least Mrs Hudson got a little wiser and hid the gun away (Molly suspected she had given it to John for safekeeping) before Sherlock could put more holes in her walls. The patience the woman had was unmatchable. Molly had to wonder if Mrs Hudson had ever plotted Sherlock’s death in her head. Molly couldn’t deny she herself ever did just that.

 

“Well, go find John and Mary,” she suggested, trying to force the door to close again, but Sherlock’s hand was firmly keeping it open. “Honestly, not a good day, Sherlock.”

 

“It’s Friday, John has a shift at Barts. Mary’s out shopping with Rosamund and before you suggest I go out to accompany her, even I know that would be not good with the press just waiting for the next huge sensational news about me and the Watsons. I could always poison someone –”

 

Molly forced the door open quickly, barely affecting the consulting detective. The last thing she wanted was to do an autopsy on some poor soul Sherlock decided to poison – even when she knew he was joking. Well, better safe than sorry. Her move obviously pleased him as he strode into her flat and handed over the breakfast offering.

 

They were used to it, him being in her flat. There were movie nights and dinners, experiments when Mrs Hudson decided it was wise to kick Sherlock out, or simply they spent time quietly attending to their tasks (her reading, him in his mind palace). He never stayed, not anymore. He stopped using her flat as his bolt hole after Moriarty’s fall and had made an effort to knock instead of simply breaking in.

 

She followed his steps as he removed his Belstaff, gingerly hanging it on the coat rack when he passed it. It was about a week since his last case, with which she had the pleasure of assisting, and it should not be all too surprising for him to seek another kind of excitement. After all, cheating husbands and/or wives, though they paid well, were never the type of mysteries he was interested in.

 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” she said as Sherlock took up his usual spot on her sofa, “but there has to be a murder _somewhere_.”

 

“There is. Just nothing interesting enough that Graham can’t solve,” he answered as she handed him back the coffee and brown paper bag.

 

“Greg,” she corrected him on cue as she claimed the spot next to him. No one believed he didn’t know the detective inspector’s name any longer. Even Greg had stopped correcting him after a while. Sherlock’s attempt to annoy, or maybe just to keep people on their toes, was getting old. Still, every now and then, people couldn’t help but correct him, to his delight.

 

“Is this…?” her words trailed as he pulled out the food from the packaging. “This is from my favourite bakery!” She was surprised and it was clear on her face as she finally noticed the familiar logo on the two cups. Though, in fairness, she would have noticed it sooner if she had not been preoccupied with the idea of shooing him away from her flat.

 

He smirked in response and said nothing.

 

“Sherlock, that’s in a different direction from Baker Street to my flat,” she said, feeling a little touched. “You have my attention. What can I do for you?”

 

A flash of hurt was apparent in his eyes, nearly collapsing Molly’s lungs. “Can’t I just show up with breakfast for no reason?” he asked with thinly veiled sadness.

 

She wouldn’t lie to herself; there would never be a day when she did not love Sherlock Holmes. But she liked where they were, what they had become, and it was enough for her. The fact was, he did save her from the clutch of Moriarty’s man in time. Yet she threw him a look which she knew he’d understood.

 

And she almost, _almost_ , felt sorry for him.

 

“No,” she answered curtly. “Sherlock, don’t take this the wrong way, but for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve always had ulterior motives. So, do forgive me for not taking your words face value.”

 

He blinked, appearing lost in his thoughts, though she knew he was not slipping deep into his mind palace. It was just him deciphering things in forefront his mind. He was trying to remember or accept how her words reigned true. Of course she meant no harm with the truth, but she was still uneasy. She bit her bottom lip as the minutes ticked by and he was lost in his own thoughts. The coffee in her hand was cooling to a pleasantly warm heat.

 

“Fair point,” he said after a while, nodding. “You have no reason to trust that I have no ulterior motives to speak of and you have every right to doubt me.”

 

“Sherlock…” Molly started, unsure of what she could say to change the suddenly thick air between them. He was not angry or offended, she could tell as much. He was accepting and that was a new thing for her to see. Sherlock haughtily accepting things she could deal with. It was the only version of him she knew well. But Sherlock calmly accepting without argument and pointing out his understanding was a bit much for her.

 

Luckily, Sherlock seemed to sense her thoughts. “I’m trying this new thing,” he explained. “I understand over the past twelve-odd years we’ve know each other, I haven’t been fair to you.”

 

“You don’t have to apologize.”

 

He shook his head. “I believe I do.”

 

“Well, I think you’ve more than made up for it.” In all honesty, Molly had decided a long time ago not to hold anything against Sherlock. Though crass, none of his words were delivered with intentional malice. At the very least, compared to most people she had met over the years, and despite the flirtations he used to get his way, Sherlock had been one of the few that had been honest with her.

 

“That’s the problem,” he said, sighing. “I don’t believe I have.”

 

“You did save my life, you know,” she replied pointedly, reminding him how he had shown up like a knight in shining armour to save her from evil. Even if her fairy tale didn’t end with them living happily ever after, she was alright with the conclusion.

 

“It was my fault your life was in danger in the first place.” It was his turn to remind her of the reason why she was held at gunpoint and nearly lost her life.

 

Molly pursed her lips. “We’ve been over this before,” she said, exasperated. “It’s hardly your fault a lunatic decided I’m somehow important to you in the grand scheme of things.”

 

He fell silent with her argument. It was unsettling how reserved he had suddenly become. Their comfortable and usually playful banter seemed to escape him.

 

“Sherlock, I –” she started to speak again, only to be interrupted by the chime of her mobile. “Okay, this is a bit too cliché,” she said, chuckling before turning to retrieve her phone that was on the side table. He remained stoic as she groaned when she saw the caller ID. “Well, so much for a free and relaxing day,” she mumbled to herself before answering.

 

It was not surprising for her to be called in during her off day. She was single, unattached, and thus it made more sense to everyone at the hospital to phone her. Obviously they didn’t consider that she might have something else to do. Apparently the word ‘single’ meant you were always free to come in to cover someone’s shift even if their excuse to get out of work (and shag their mistress) was a flimsy one….

 

“Sorry, Sherlock,” she said, regretting having leave the conversation hanging in the air. “I’ve got to go. You’re welcome to stay, just lock the door when you leave.”

 

She leaned into him and kissed his cheek lightly, and she could almost swear he closed his eyes, savouring the touch. She didn’t dare linger, leaving him almost at once to go and get dressed.

 

When she came out of her bedroom ready for work, he had left only the packed breakfast and a note saying ‘don’t forget to eat’ to prove he was there.


	2. The Thought Process

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, talking to a friend would probably help your case.

Not hearing from Sherlock for a period of time was not at all surprising. Molly had gotten so used to him waltzing his way in and out of her life that she took no offense to his absence. Though, over the past year, he had never failed to contact her even if he was on the other side of the world. A short text telling her that he would have to miss movie night (and usually Mary and Rosie showed up in his place) because he was stuck with John somewhere due to an unfinished case, or a rare flight delay since even Mycroft always seemed to decide sending a jet would be better than dealing with an irritated Sherlock, or, in Sherlock’s own words, just the damn weather.

 

She didn’t think much of it as she replied to his apologetic texts, telling him it was alright and she’d save the movie for next time. It was also not strange for them to actually go to the cinema together every now and then. She had found this strange at first, but then he had insisted it was some sort of an experiment, which she didn’t believe, but she never thought more of it because was nice to have company anyway. There were a few times when he had made the effort of getting her tickets to movies she wanted to see which were difficult to get unless she wanted to watch it a month after it opened.

 

However, it had been a week now since she last heard from him. Ever since he left her flat that morning, he had practically taken it upon himself not to make an appearance in her life. For the first two days, Molly had thought nothing of it or of the fact she had yet declined or RSVP through the alumni website for her school reunion. Work was piling up with a number of easily solved homicides and reports took most of her time. It wasn’t until he didn’t show up for their usual movie night on Saturday and Sunday rolled in without another word that she decided it was not a bad idea to text him. If John himself asked if she had heard from Sherlock, saying he had been out of touch with everyone else as well, it must have been something very distracting.

 

**_Coming to my place tonight? – Mx_ **

 

She sent the simple message out, deciding against going up to find him at Baker Street. Whatever it was, perhaps he was just a little caught up with the situation to keep in touch. Minutes passed with no reply – another odd thing, as Sherlock had always tried to reply almost instantly.

 

Worry started to creep in as she contemplated on her next action.

 

Fortunately for her, Toby saved her from the possibility of panicking and making a fool of herself when he demanded her attention. Sherlock easily fell out to the back of her head as she entertained the feline and finally retreated to her bedroom for the night. She’d worry about Sherlock tomorrow, she decided. Then again, it was hard to deal with his absence when he had become a prominent fixture of her daily life, and it took her longer than necessary to fall asleep as her thoughts drifted to him.

 

\--

 

“Still alive then?” John’s voice startled Sherlock from his thoughts. He turned his gaze onto the man who was holding a toddler to his side, a small girl who looked like a miniature of him, making the view rather amusing.

 

“Yes,” he replied indifferently, pausing and then changing his demeanor when the young girl squealed happily in his direction. He abandoned all attempts to ignore the pair and set to retrieve the child from John. “I should be concerned at how effortlessly Mary could read me.”

 

John chuckled easily at the statement. Sherlock had, without too much effort, guessed it was Mary who insisted John to bring his goddaughter along to get his attention. Very few people in Sherlock’s life had that effect on him, able to pull him out of his mind with such ease. One was little Rosamund Watson, and it didn’t take a genius to know who the other was.

 

“You did go AWOL for over four days. I figured since Mrs Hudson hadn’t gone off worrying, you’d still ne at Baker Street,” John said nonchalantly as he sat in his usual chair. Sherlock had not removed the chair since he returned it to its original position. John knew it was Sherlock’s way of telling him he would always be welcomed at Baker Street and nothing could change their friendship. It was rather kind in Sherlock’s way. He was man of very few words when it came to his affection for others.

 

Of course, he was fiercely protective too, and everyone who loved him back returned the affection with the same fervor. Mrs Hudson for example, would take a beating for Sherlock; above all, she would worry for him even if she kept repeating how she wasn’t a housekeeper or his mother. They had all came a long way and he understood her when she rang to ask him to come and check on his friend.

 

“She broke yesterday, worried since you haven’t been eating properly.”

 

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, bouncing Rosie on his knees as he had already reclaimed the sofa. The young girl squealed in delight at the attention. Everyone could see how spoiled she would be; well, anyone who knew Sherlock. He was still very private about his affection for Rosamund.

 

“What’s on your mind?” John prodded. As usual, chaotic Sherlock was easier to deal with. Any version of him bouncing off, chasing after a criminal or shooting at the wall was much preferable to this. Those things were normal for Sherlock. Silence, stillness, and this level of detachment were not. Not to mention it would usually took a lot for Mary to worry, and she had begun to worry about Sherlock. He was not himself. John was not so blind as not to notice that bit without anyone telling him.

 

Sherlock chose to continue to entertain the young Miss Watson for a few more moments before his attention turn to his best friend. “A conundrum,” he said wistfully.

 

“Molly?” John threw a guess which sounded nothing like a guess. It grabbed Sherlock’s full attention.

 

Sherlock blinked, surprised to find his friend had figured out the source of his self-imposed exile. Molly, yes, Molly was a conundrum of his life. Over the period of time he had known her, he could not quite describe her. She was not his friend, not quite his colleague, but she had been essential in his life from the moment he met her.

 

Everyone had a title in his life. His parents were his parents. Mycroft was his brother. Mrs Hudson, though he would never admit it aloud, was something akin to a mother. John was his best friend, Mary was a good friend (at first by extension, though now he came to appreciate her friendship more), and Rosie was his goddaughter. Even Greg Lestrade, he would grudgingly admit, was his friend.

 

But Molly was not. He could never quite call her his friend. Not from the beginning. She was always ‘my pathologist’ – a title no one had argued over. It was her job. It was something along the line of saying John was merely his doctor. But he was never this thrown by John, despite what other people believed.

 

“She is…” He paused, trying to find a word and looked squarely on Rosie’s smiling face, “…confusing.”

 

John shook his head and laughed. “She has no definite answer in your head, right?” he said easily, looking up at Sherlock’s scrunched up face. It looked as if Sherlock was almost begging for some solution knowing full well it was something he had to figure out himself. John would hold back from spelling it out, no matter how tempting for him to just put the detective into his place. “I can’t help you solve this one mate. Whatever the answer to your question, all I can tell you is you’re not going to find it here.”

 

Sherlock nodded, his gaze darting towards the cream envelope tucked underneath stacks of haphazardly sorted newspaper on the desk.

 

“No,” he agreed. “Not likely.”

 

**\--**

 

Another Friday came knocking before Molly knew it. As one day blended into the next, a lot of things fell to the back of her mind until a reminder email arrived in her inbox. She summoned all the powers that be to stop herself from swearing into oblivion when she read the email subject, a reminder to RSVP for the school reunion that was to be held only in a week. If there was one woman who’d never grow up, Alison Goode was one of them. It was just her unfortunate luck to have met that sort of person in her life.

 

“I guess it’s not a good time to ask if you’d babysit Rosie tonight…” Mary’s voice came from the door.

 

Molly sighed, burying her head in her hand for a few seconds before looking back up at Mary. They had gotten on well over the years and she spoke to Mary more than she did any of her other friends – well, the only two she had, aside from Mary. She was never big on socializing and opening herself up. Pleasantries she could do, but heart to heart was another thing. Then there was the constant ‘I don’t even know how you put up with Sherlock’ she just could never handle. What did they mean ‘put up with’? Compared to most people, Sherlock had been generous to her.

 

“Sorry, I just have the sudden urge to punch a wall,” she confessed as Mary strode into the office and claimed a chair in front of her. She was glowing despite the obvious exhaustion of being a mother of a child who had just learned how to use her feet.

 

“I would advise against that,” Mary said easily. “What you need is a punching bag and a pair of boxing gloves. It’ll work better to blow off some steam.”

 

Molly laughed. “Yeah, probably not a bad idea to stop by at the gym soon.” It was not a secret she had taken it upon herself to take a few self-defense lessons. After having nearly died at the hands of a lunatic, Molly decided she couldn’t continue to cower away. Most people would need therapy after such events. Not Molly, apparently; her life was crazy enough that it was all like another day at the office.

 

“I don’t mean to pry, but you know you can talk to me, right?” Mary asked, leaning to pat Molly’s arm that spread on the table lightly. She might have had a guess or two as to why Molly was losing her temper; still, she was convinced it was not because of the reasons that were floating around her head.

 

“School reunion,” Molly mumbled irritably.

 

Mary nodded. “Ah…”

 

“Heard of Alison Goode?” Molly asked, running her fingers through her hair and pulling out the hair tie as she did. The universe sure liked to screw her over. It was not as if she asked for much. She just wanted a peaceful life and to be left alone, not to have her past constantly thrown at her face.

 

“Sure, the wife of Alan Goode, that famous businessman,” Mary answered without missing a beat. “Why?”

 

Molly groaned. Of course, everyone knew. The bloody wife of a rich man who spent her time volunteering and smiling for the damn camera about her damn perfect and wonderful life with the damn two point five children. “She’s my former classmate.”

 

“Oh…” Mary said, leaning back into the chair, clocking Molly’s source of irritation. She could guess that bit easily and it was the reason why she hated Sherlock’s so-called old friends when she accompanied him on some high-profile cases. They weren’t his friends, just like how this wife of Alan Goode wasn’t Molly’s. “Tormentor?”

 

Leave it to Mary to guess it right of the bat. Molly nodded weakly, turning the screen of her computer to give Mary a better view of the e-invite that was sent to her work email.

 

“She must really want you there,” Mary commented after scanning through the page. She was just as good, if not better than Sherlock at reading between the lines. And at people’s motives, she was a lot better. “Want me to take her out? I can make it look an accident.”

 

Molly looked appalled. “Mary Elizabeth Watson!” she exclaimed.

 

It was not a secret, not between Mary, John, Mycroft, Sherlock and Molly, who Mary really was. They needed to trust each other the most when Moriarty returned and Mary had explained in the most delicate way to them so her past couldn’t be used against her when it came to her closest friends. Molly had been horrified at first, but eventually accepted it as it was when she realized how Mary counted her as a friend.

 

“It’s a joke, Molly,” Mary said, chuckling.

 

“Don’t make jokes like that,” Molly shot back. “You don’t know who could be listening in.”

 

“Please. We both know if anyone’s listening in, it’s Mycroft.”

 

A smile formed on Molly’s lips as she shook her head. She couldn’t exactly disagree with Mary and deny the possibility of Mycroft bugging her office. She should be annoyed if he really did, but she wasn’t. In fact, it made her feel a little safer knowing he was keeping tabs on her. Even with Moriarty gone, Molly was not foolish enough to think there weren’t any monsters just as terrible as he was. Dealing with Mycroft might not be the brightest idea either, though she knew enough how twist the man’s arm if necessary.

 

“It doesn’t look to me like you can decline,” Mary said, steering the conversation back to the problem that was weighing on Molly’s mind.

 

“I know,” Molly sighed. “I’m not that stupid to not see her blatant attempt to embarrass me.”

 

Mary pursed her lips together. “There’s nothing about you that’s embarrassing, Molly. You’ve achieved more than anyone twice your age and you’re highly respected in your field. There’s even talk about you taking over the department when your boss moves up,” she said enthusiastically. People liked Molly, liked that she could run things smoothly while also keeping Sherlock in line. There was that bonus of having her around and no one really wanted to mess with Mycroft either. He was very fond of the pathologist.

 

“I’m not embarrassed of myself, Mary,” Molly said, lacing her fingers and leaning into her chair. “And we both know those are just rumours,” she added pointedly. Of course, she heard the hearsay, but she didn’t want to think about it. Whatever happened and whoever would take over the job of managing a huge department, she would cross that bridge when she got there. But, Alison, she wished she never met the woman. “It’s just that she’ll make my life hell either way.”

 

“So, go,” Mary replied supportively. “Go and show her you’re this amazing an accomplished woman in her own right like we both know you are. You lack nothing.”

 

“By her standard, I lack a lot.” Molly didn’t even bother to hide her frustration. Mary could see it even if she tried to hide it anyway. She never felt like a failure in front of Mary or any of her friends here. She wasn’t embarrassed, really. “It’s just I’m thirty-seven, and not happily married with kids.”

 

“That’s a bullshit standard and you know it,” Mary said, shaking her head. “But if you need arm candy, you can always borrow John,” she teased lightly.

 

“Funny,” Molly said, smirking. She liked how she always felt a little better whenever she spoke to Mary. Who, apparently, was not finished.

 

“Or just ask Sherlock.”


	3. As to be Expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly came to a decision only to find herself surprised by a turn of event.

She’d sent him seven text messages since the last time she saw him, surprising even herself at her ability to control her emotions. She was concerned, clearly, but catching a newspaper report on him on Monday assured her enough he was alive and well – only avoiding her for reasons she was unsure of. It would be easy to press him, to show up at Baker Street, though she continued to decide against it. She liked to think she knew Sherlock, and she knew he would tell her what was weighing on his mind when he was ready.

 

It was probably good that finding things to occupy her time was not a challenge. After speaking to Mary and battling with herself, she finally sent her reply to the invitation email. She was going, alone. Mary was right. She had nothing to fear and whatever they wanted to say to her, she could bet they wouldn’t do better than her. Even Alison Goode held no candle against her, none at all. Her only accomplishment was achieved through her husband’s money, while Molly worked hard for years to achieve her own goals. She took no shortcuts, no pity and had battled a number of misogynistic views to get to where she was. She had overcome a lot and it was about time to go back and hold her head high, showing how proud she was of her achievements.

 

Unfortunately, what was left of her courage had flown off by the time the taxi rolled up to the hotel where the reunion was being held. Part of her wished she had sent Sherlock a message to ask him to accompany her, or showed up at Baker Street to beg him to do that just that. They were friends, right? It was the least he could do to spend a weekend pretending to be her boyfriend. Yes, they were friends and that meant she knew Sherlock fairly well, and honestly, it was probably a good thing that she didn’t heed Mary’s second bit of advice by inviting him.

She briefly contemplated turning back, but with no time to do so as none other than Alison Goode was there to greet her the moment her taxi stopped, excitedly pulling Molly into a hug as if they were old friends. They certainly were not, yet who would believe her over the world’s perfect wife?

 

“Molly Hooper!” the dark-haired beauty squealed, pressing her cheek to Molly’s as a camera flash nearly blinded Molly’s vision. She was not at all surprised of the photo-op, only thanking Mary in her mind for forcing her to dress up a little even if the actual party would not take place until later in the evening. At the very least she was not caught with her usual cherry jumper, which she had no doubt would be the source of jokes and parody for many years to come. She wasn’t ashamed by it; she loved it. She just didn’t want to give Alison more reason to be high and mighty.

 

“Alison.” Molly tried to hide the spite in her voice, though she didn’t have to, not with one after another of her former classmates arriving in grand fashion after her.

 

She was quickly pushed aside, something she was glad for, and so she made her way into the large hotel. The cost of staying there for the night chipped away most of her last pay, but she decided she could at least pamper herself. There was, of course, an option Alison had offered, to pay for the stay herself. Molly would rather have starved than accepted handouts from such a woman.

 

“Reservation under Hooper.” She smiled kindly at the staff behind the desk, noting that being nice wasn’t at all difficult. The young woman returned her smile appreciatively and quickly set to typing her name. Molly couldn’t help but wonder how long a day it had been with the thirty-something women flaunting about and never growing up since secondary school.

 

“I’m sorry, Miss,” the desk clerk said moments later, “there doesn’t seem to be a reservation under that name. Perhaps you’ve booked under a different name?”

 

Molly pursed her lips, reminding herself to take a breath. The last thing she wanted was to cause a scene with reporters just outside the hotel and she never liked to make someone’s day worse on her account. She fished out her mobile, scrolling through her inbox for the booking receipt, but before she could say another word, a deep baritone voice stopped her in her tracks.

 

“It’s under Holmes.”

 

“Sherlock!” she gasped, turning to find him standing right behind her and nearly falling over if not for his quick reaction. Her face burned as she felt his hand on her waist, guiding her back to her feet and then remaining in place. She wanted to be angry at him for disappearing and reappearing out of nowhere. She wanted to yell at him. But she didn’t.

 

“Of course, Mr Holmes.” The young woman nodded, her nimble fingers typing away the name that was all too familiar to the nation. “Your suite is ready and here’s your key. If you have any luggage, our porters will be happy to assist you.”

 

Molly’s mind was still reeling when Sherlock leaned across her to retrieve the key. Two weeks without him saying a word to her and all of sudden showing up at her reunion… To say Molly was confused was an understatement. She was glad at least part of her mind was still working to remind her not to cause a scene. She opted to follow his lead instead, trusting him explicitly, as she always had in the past.

 

“Thank you,” he said to the clerk. He was being polite now? She never knew when to expect it, with him bouncing from politeness to rude efficiency at the drop of a pin. He had little patience when it came to people in general and Molly couldn’t say she didn’t share the sentiment.

 

Unaware of Molly’s train of thought, the young woman smiled professionally. “You’re welcome. We hope you’ll enjoy your stay, Mr and Mrs Holmes.”

 

“But, I’m n–”

 

“We will, thank you,” Sherlock interrupted, guiding Molly easily to the lift as he handed two bags to the waiting porter. As hard as it was for her to remain calm and collected, she managed to keep from appearing uncomfortable, even when numerous eyes followed them as they moved, pushing her limit bit by bit. Sherlock should have known she hated being the center of attention, unless when the attention was due, and this was not one of those moments.

 

“Okay, Sherlock, what’s the case and why do you need to crash my reunion?” she said as soon as he closed the door to their room, tipping the porter generously. She supposed she wasn’t surprised at the grand nature of the décor or the size of the suite. Twelve years of knowing Sherlock had her well informed of the extent of his family wealth, and by extension, his own. So, no, she was not at all stunned that he had obviously chosen the most expensive room in the hotel. It was quite possibly even more expensive than the one Alison had booked for herself.

 

She was, however, surprised that he’d done it for her. She became more flustered when he didn’t answer her initial question immediately, instead striding into the room and taking his sweet time to make himself comfortable, lounging on one of the sofas. He was testing her patience and she needed it for the night.

 

“I apologize,” he said after a while.

 

She sighed and took a seat on the chair next to him. “Tell me about the case. I know you wouldn’t travel this far just to annoy me.”

 

He wouldn’t. She knew that, and he knew it as well. If he were to annoy her, he would do so by text and urge her to return to London, not travel all the way to Newcastle to summon her. Still, he had probably gone to less trouble than she had while travelling. There were perks of being Sherlock Holmes and she had been privy to some of those perks in the past. Town cars, private jets and, well, impressive hotel rooms to start.

 

“It’s a favour for Mycroft,” Sherlock began, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves as he spoke. “One of your former classmates appears to be married to a person of interest to the British Government.”

 

Molly nodded, urging Sherlock to continue.

 

“He believes a trade of some sort – the details had been sketchy at best – will take place here tonight and I’m to keep an eye out for anything that could potentially be a clue as to whom the buyer could be and what they would be buying,” he explained.

 

“And who’s this former classmate of mine?” Molly asked, secretly hoping it would be Alison Goode. No, she really wanted it to be Alison because Molly felt like she was owed. The world owed her, she had been nothing but good and even with Sherlock – especially with Sherlock – she had been nothing but accepting. If there was such a thing as karma, she was hoping it kick itself into gear right about now for Alison to receive her payment in full.

 

“Alan Goode.”

 

It would’ve been terribly impolite for her to cheer, even in the presence of only Sherlock, so instead Molly opted to sigh deeply, relieved that her prayers that this week wouldn’t end with Alison all high and mighty had been answered. Molly wasn’t the type to wish someone ill, or _anyone_ , really. It was just that _years_ ’ worth of torture that Alison had inflicted on many made Molly feel it was justified to want the woman to have her arse handed to her.

 

There was just one small detail Molly forgot about how easily Sherlock could read her. One tiny detail that made her want to hang herself in shame for wishing the worst for Alison.

 

“You don’t like her very much.” The statement, flat in his delicious baritone voice, caused Molly to stutter.

 

“I-I didn’t say that!”

 

Silence filled the room as Sherlock paused to study Molly’s expression. In all the years she had known him, never once had Molly felt so exposed under his gaze. It wasn’t even the kind she had once fantasized about. He was reading her, unfolding some deep, dark secret that she had fought so hard to shove down and that she would have to try hard to remember if she wanted to.

 

Molly had expected a lot, a string of sentences thrown at her, opening old wounds – anything. But nothing came out of Sherlock’s mouth. If anything, he was quieter, and he leaned back in the sofa after he was done studying her. His silence left Molly partly concerned, but somehow partly relieved. Whatever it was that Sherlock saw on her face, he had wisely kept it to himself. Perhaps deciding it was best to have a partner that wouldn’t kick his shin under the table when she was annoyed.

 

“Fine,” Molly sighed. There was nothing she could do to stop Sherlock crashing her reunion. She knew he would find other means if she were to refuse to help him, but it was always exciting to be involved in his endeavours. “What’s your cover?”

 

Sherlock looked uneasy for the first time since she saw him earlier. He rose from his seat, pacing a little, and then stopped to face her. It was a sight to behold knowing that Sherlock, even in his haze, had always been confident and, at times, arrogant. There was something about the cover he wasn’t happy with and Molly could see that.

 

It made her anxious. What could possibly cause Sherlock to be uncomfortable?

 

“Your husband,” he blurted out after a moment.

 

Molly’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

 

“My what?” she asked, sure that she had heard him wrong. Certain that Sherlock had been joking about the whole thing and half expecting some sort of a prank crew to burst out of the adjacent bedroom recording her every expression. She feared she must’ve looked a tad hopeful even for a fraction of second.

 

“Your husband, Molly,” Sherlock repeated, not unkindly. “Boyfriend is not serious enough for people our age and neither is an engagement judging by most of your former classmates’ marital status. There have been divorces and remarriages, second and third marriages, but that’s not the point....”

 

Sherlock was rambling. He really didn’t like the cover. Not to say Molly was disappointed; she knew him after all. Hell would freeze over before Sherlock even considered anything as domestic as marriage. Not that he cared much about relationships in general, from what Molly had learned about the Janine ordeal that Mary shared with her.

 

“Plus, a married partner is likelier to show up at their spouse’s school events or risk any domestic issue.”

 

“Yeah, that makes perfect sense,” Molly said, wincing as the words left her lips. Even she could hear the irritation in her tone.

 

She braved a look at Sherlock’s face instead of the space over his shoulder where her gaze had been fixed for the past few minutes. He looked tense. Definitely not liking it, even though she did. And there was something else, something Molly couldn’t quite put a finger on. Sherlock was withholding something from her, and she could only hope it was not about the case. She would prefer knowing what she was getting into. Even back when they were plotting his ‘death’ she had been hands-on in many regards, much to Mycroft’s chagrin, and later, respect. She hated not knowing.

 

“Sorry,” she apologized.

 

“It wasn’t my idea,” Sherlock mumbled. He grunted and ran his fingers through his hair. “Mycroft set up the whole thing and I’ve assured him I could have accompanied you as a friend.”

 

Molly chuckled. “Yeah, make my life more pathetic than it already is.”

 

“Who said your life is pathetic?” There was something genuine in Sherlock’s tone. Of course, he wouldn’t have considered what many would find sad at best as pathetic.

 

“Forget that,” Molly replied, brushing away the topic. Sometimes, just sometimes, it was convenient that Sherlock didn’t understand social convention. Times like this, to be exact, when he wouldn’t pity her for being single at her age while her schoolmates were probably showing up with their respective significant others and had been married for ten plus years. “It’s nothing.”

 

He narrowed his eyes at her, for a split second it looked as if he was willing to argue, but the moment passed and his posture relaxed as he dug something out of his coat pocket. It was only then that Molly noticed how he had been wearing a ring on his fourth finger. Not the typical gold band, but something stylish and fitting with his overall style. It occurred to her that it was also probably why they were referred to as Mr and Mrs Holmes by the front desk staff.

 

A beat, a moment passed as Sherlock held the box by the tips of his fingers before he stepped forward to stop directly in front of her. Molly made a move to take the box, only for Sherlock to pull it away from her reach. She arched an eyebrow questioningly at him, watching his movement as he opened the box and pulled two rings out of the container.

 

She recognized one ring was set to match the one that was already on Sherlock’s finger and knew that would be the wedding band, with its simple and elegant design, while the other, though less bulky than average, was clearly an engagement ring. Both rings looked like they were chosen or designed to fit her profession, with deep set gemstones and non-hindering edges that could tear a latex glove. It was as if they were made for her. Molly had to shake her head to remind herself that Sherlock might have thought about that to make their charade look believable.

 

“Mrs Holmes,” Sherlock said. Again, Molly noted that something in his eyes, only this time, it was in his voice as well. “Your hand, if you don’t mind.”

 

She couldn’t help but smile at the moniker and decided to play along – how could she not, knowing she wouldn’t get another chance – as she raised her left hand for Sherlock to fit the rings onto her finger. A weekend to play house with Sherlock and solve a case didn’t sound half bad.

 

“That’s _Doctor_ Holmes to you.”


	4. Case in Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was time to get ready for the ball.

They ended up spending the remaining part of the afternoon in the hotel room, ordering food from the room service menu as Sherlock filled Molly in with the details of the case. Despite not wanting to know anything of her school tormentor, by the time Sherlock finished his order of fish (she decided not to point out how he never ate while on a case), Molly had learned Alison had been married to Alan for a good fifteen years. She was a model before she married him, and they’d met at some charity fashion show Alan’s mother had thrown. She graduated from a local university with a decent grade, which didn’t surprise Molly in the very least, and the couple had two children together.

 

It was probably the most unfortunate thing about the whole case, having to investigate a parent of wrongdoings that would shatter the life of children who didn’t ask to have Alan or Alison as their parents.

 

“He’s not a good man, Molly,” Sherlock said, as if reading her thoughts. “And that’s a lot coming from me.”

 

Molly smiled, looking up from the dossier she had been perusing for the better part of an hour, reading and remembering details that could possibly help Sherlock over the course of the evening. She would rather be useful to the investigation than look forlornly at people as they showed off their perfect lives anyway.

 

“You are a good man, Sherlock,” she replied unthinkingly, for she did believe he was a good man even when he wouldn’t consider himself one. “Just not a nice one sometimes.”

 

She expected it, this time, his silence, and allowed him to find his way through his mind palace, deciphering her words in one way or another. It was always odd to her, how niceness and goodness were considered mutually inclusive when they weren’t. One could be nice and not be good just as much as one could be good and not be nice. One thing never negated the other, it never did, or else serial killers, psychopaths, and even sociopaths couldn’t live without anyone noticing them.

 

Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon locked away in his mind. Molly finished her meal and put the dishes aside for room service to pick it up, not fond of things scattering about without purpose. As she waited for Sherlock, she made her way for a quick shower followed by preparing for the night’s event.

 

She was just fiddling with her hair when Sherlock appeared behind her, with her catching sight of him in the vanity mirror.

 

“There’s a dress for you in the closet,” he told her, gesturing towards one of the closed doors. “Anthea, she had it sent over before we checked in.”

 

“I already –” Molly tried to protest, but Sherlock was already walking off towards the bathroom. She didn’t have to guess what he was after when she heard the sound of the shower running.

 

Sighing, Molly padded across the room to open the closet Sherlock had pointed at earlier. True, she had picked out her dress for the evening, simple and only worn once before to a wedding of one of the Barts staff who had kindly invited her. It wasn’t the most expensive or the prettiest of the sort, but Molly had loved the peach coloured dress more than she was willing to admit. She had to admit, though, it was better suited for an evening tea or a wedding than a night spent impressing a bunch of people she only vaguely remembered.

 

_I’ll just take a peek,_ she told herself as she pulled open the door.

 

What she saw left her jaw hanging open. It was gorgeous, and obviously, whoever picked out the dress knew what they were doing. She had definitely heard the name Anthea before, but only in passing, and never got the chance to meet the formidable woman herself. Still, Molly could tell even Mary would approve of Anthea’s choice of the evening dress. Any woman would feel pretty in the dress and it looked like it had been tailored to fit her without any problem.

 

Sometimes, just sometimes, Molly wondered if it was scary to have the British Government know everything about you, even your dress size.

 

This was, fortunately, not one of those times. Molly reached for the dress, feeling the soft material on her fingertips. It was a lovely long dress, in the colour of one of Sherlock’s deeper blue scarves. For a brief moment, Molly wondered if that was intentional, but brushed it off as she studied the neatly embroidered pattern at the end of the long sleeves and the plunging neckline. She was about to wonder how she was going to wear it when she realized Anthea had taken the liberty to include appropriate lingerie along with the dress. And shoes, she was thankful for that too.

 

Molly knew she was lost. There was no way she would show up wearing her peach dress when she was tempted with something far beyond what she would imagine to buy. She could only hazard a guess that the dress cost more than she would like to know.

 

“Molly?” Sherlock’s voice startled Molly out of her trance. She turned to look at Sherlock, who stood, thankfully, in a hotel robe, drying his hair. It was not a mental image Molly thought she could get rid of anytime soon. Her voice was stuck in her throat, not that Sherlock noticed, as he ploughed on. “I’m going to take the bathroom to change, you can use the room. Is that alright with you?”

 

At one point, Molly realized she must have nodded dumbly at him as Sherlock made his way to retrieve his clothing for the night, leaving her in the room. She sighed, pouting as she gathered herself and somehow managed to dress herself, settling with putting her hair in an updo for the evening. She just hoped she wasn’t expected to run or tackle anyone in the dress since it would be awful to ruin something so beautiful. Not to mention she never quite mastered how to run in heels....

 

“Stop fidgeting,” Sherlock said, loud enough only for her to hear. They had finally managed to secure a lift that wasn’t packed and were shoved all the way back as three other couples joined them. Those were also the first words he had said to her since he saw her in the dress when he came out of the bathroom, giving her a long, unreadable look. Molly thought he had lapsed back into his mind palace. A cough and an offer of his hand later was the only indication that she had been wrong in her assumption.

 

He had dressed as his usual self, forsaking the use of a tie and leaving the top two buttons of his deep blue shirt opened as always. It had taken all of Molly not to stare as he slipped into a buffer earlier. Sherlock in suits had always been attractive; he could wear them like a second skin where most others failed. Then again, unlike most, Sherlock must have gotten his suits fitted to his body, for Molly had never seen him in anything that looked borrowed. She wouldn’t even be surprised if he had a tailor on retainer considering how he never seemed to run out of bespoke suits.

 

“Sorry,” she whispered, playing with the wedding band and engagement ring that adorned her fourth finger. She had very nearly forgotten she was wearing them when they were in the hotel room.

It was strange. Strange because she was always aware of the engagement ring Tom had given her. It was always there, a jarring reminder that she had chosen to agree to marry someone in the near future. But no, not the rings Sherlock had given her. She couldn’t help but wonder why it felt like they fit her just right, like they had always been there and part of her, like an extension of her hand. It didn’t feel alien; it felt like they belonged.

 

She was saved from dwelling on the idea any longer as the lift stopped on the floor leading to the ballroom. Molly could hear the faint sound of music wafting through the corridor.

 

“Shall we?” Sherlock offered his arm again. She had casually let her arm slip off of his earlier, seeing it wasn’t necessary to keep up pretences when they were pushed all the way to the back of the lift. No one would see it anyway, and she needed the time to gather her wits. It was hard enough she was practically engulfed in his scent with him standing far too close.

 

She briefly considered protesting but wisely chose against it, barely two steps into the corridor before being greeted by one of her former classmates. Molly knew that by the look on her face, Sherlock could tell instantly it was not one of the people he was supposed to put in place for the evening.

 

“Patricia!” Molly leaned into the double cheek kiss without letting go of her hold on Sherlock’s arm. She was definitely going to be touching him a lot throughout the night for support, something she hadn’t considered, and she kicked herself mentally for not doing so.

 

“You came! We weren’t sure if you would.” Patricia’s shrill voice filled the area. Molly fought the urge to cringe as she smiled politely at the redhead.

 

She remembered the woman, of course she did. In fact, Molly was sure the entire football team remembered her all too well, probably even the chess team. Molly had no problem with promiscuity, never did and never will, but Patricia was something else. She was also manipulative and knew how to use her sexual appetite to her advantage, even it meant hurting other people just because she could.

 

No, she was definitely the reason why some redheads were viewed as Satan’s spawn, with her complete disregard for people’s feelings. Molly would even consider her worse than the worst she had to deal with in the years she had known Sherlock, and worse than Sherlock himself. He was an arse, she had no delusion into thinking he wasn’t, but he was not as terrible as Patricia as he wouldn’t intentionally do something unless it was for a good reason – and there was the fact that he couldn’t really understand social conventions. It was nice that he had slowly been catching up over the years and she could see him changing in the smallest of ways that other people would’ve missed.

 

“How could I not,” Molly said through gritted teeth. Indeed, how could she not with the barrage of reminders sent to her email and snail mail?

 

“And who’s this?” Patricia asked, still chirpy and completely the irritation Molly directed towards her.

 

Molly smiled. It was just as good a time as any to introduce Sherlock to people she spent her formative years with. Besides, the sooner she introduced him to someone, the faster the rumour would spread and she could prepare herself with the whole feigned surprises and excitements of her marriage. She was glad they had a quick run through of how, when and where they got married, because Molly wasn’t sure if she would be quick enough to fabricate a story at the drop of a hat. The cover story, with little diverging from what was obviously Mycroft’s (or maybe Anthea’s) plan, stayed.

 

Unfortunately for Molly, before she could answer, someone else had called out for Patricia, and though she looked she very much would like to know who Molly’s arm candy was – more who he was to her than who he actually _was_ , seeing as Molly was sure all of England would know who Sherlock was – she had to excuse herself.

 

“Sorry, duty calls.” Molly didn’t think she sounded sorry at all. “Tell me all about it later?”

 

She gave Patricia a non-committal nod as the spitfire rushed away.

 

“Fair warning,” she said, turning towards Sherlock. “There’ll be more Patricias tonight than you can probably handle. Let me know if it gets too much for you.”

 

Sherlock gave her a small smile she didn’t anticipate, her heart faltering a moment. Instead of waiting for his response, she whirled around on her heels, striding towards the registration counter a few paces away with more grace than she thought she could manage.

 

Luck was naturally not on Molly’s side as she reached the table. Knowing she couldn’t have expected any less, even the greeting committee seemed to be sizing her up as she and Sherlock, a step behind her, stopped in front of the table. The two women (Molly had always wondered why it was women who tended to check for attendance and never quite understood it), immaculately dressed, exchanged a quick glance before the shorter (Molly noted the woman’s name tag with her name clearly written as Rebecca Barrett) of them turned to look up at Molly.

 

“Name?” she asked in a shrill voice.

 

Molly sighed inwardly. If Sherlock had not guessed her school years were not the best years of her life, he should know by now. It was as if the whole school had never quite grown up, down to the last of them. She had hoped to meet the few that she was amiable with when she was younger, but she wasn’t sure if any of them would even show up. They’ve probably had better things to do with their lives than to care about a reunion they were practically badgered into attending.

 

“Molly Hooper,” Molly replied, knowing that it would be best to get it over with as quickly and as painless as possible.

 

“Don’t you mean Holmes?” Sherlock asked from her side.

 

There was every reason for Molly to panic. They definitely didn’t talk about this part – not that she even thought about it – how was she going to introduce herself, Molly Hooper or Molly Holmes? Sure, she had playfully corrected Sherlock earlier in their hotel room, but it was something entirely different in front of her former classmates and their gossip-hungry ears. The evening suddenly felt infinitely longer than it actually was as she turned to look at Sherlock.

 

“The registry still has my maiden name,” she said, not knowing how she managed a coherent answer, much less how she sounded confident to her own ears. “It’s easier that way.”

 

Sherlock hummed in response and moved in closer, placing his hand on her hip, distracting her for a moment. Molly cursed her luck as she returned her attention to the two women behind the table. She was awarded with dagger stare and had to force a smile onto her face. The look, at least, she could recognize anywhere. It was contempt, and Molly could hazard a guess as to what had the women’s knickers in a twist: one consulting detective who was standing obediently by her, drumming his fingers on her hip.

 

“Well, there we are,” said the woman on the left, all platinum hair and a name tag (Karen Taylor) scribbled prettily with hearts. Molly had to smile at that. She was surprised Sherlock hadn’t scoffed at the tag. “Molly Hooper plus one.”

 

Molly nodded in reply, not questioning how her reservation had been changed to include a partner because truth be told she was not at all surprised, seeing as it involved the Holmes brothers. She was handed a blank sticky name tag and a black marker which she used to scribble her name as quickly as she could, only to struggle with where she could paste the tag on her self, remembering the dress she had chosen to wear. It seemed a pity to paste something ugly on something so beautiful.

 

As always, Sherlock was quick on picking up the subtle signs he needed to step in. Without saying a word, he took the tag from Molly’s hand and peeling the back of it off, scrunching his body a little to lean and paste the tag just above her right hip. Molly didn’t miss the hitch in her breathing and hoped everyone else, including (especially) Sherlock, did.

 

She dared to steal a glance at the gatekeepers of the event. Other than their obvious discontent with her, it didn’t look like anything else ruffled their feathers. Sherlock, on the other hand... She was not too brave to look him in the eyes. He knew, of course he knew, all these years how she felt about him. They haven’t even made it into the ballroom and Molly was regretting agreeing to the mad idea. A very mad idea indeed, with Sherlock being very un-Sherlock-like.

 

Even more so when he looked directly at her, ever the gentleman and offering his arm for her once again.

 

“Ready?”

 


	5. You Don't Need a Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock had to navigate the people Molly used to know as well as keeping an eye open for Mycroft's target.

Somewhere between the table and Sherlock opening the door to the ballroom for her, Molly regained her bearings. She tried her hardest to focus on her breathing as she walked in, taking in the sights and sounds overwhelming her senses. Needless to say, Molly was taken aback by the décor of the room and couldn’t do anything but just take it in. It was strange, considering only about two percent of her graduating class had met any success at all, with many settling for less than mediocre jobs. To celebrate their meeting years later with such splendour felt like overkill to Molly.

 

There was nothing cheesy about the choice of decoration like she expected either, despite the fact that the room was clearly filled with the school’s colours at every corner, with a huge banner welcoming the graduating class to the reunion. She was, in spite her obvious disdain towards the committee members who had been involved with turning the reunion into a reality, impressed. In fact, if there was anything Molly could compliment it would be Alison’s ability to put together an event on a grand scale, though she had to wonder if her compliment would be wasted. After all, she knew enough of Alison to know that acknowledgement from her would be treated like hazardous waste.

 

Molly stole a glance up at Sherlock, worry filling her with each step they took. Apparently she really didn’t have anything to be concerned about, seeing how Sherlock looked completely at ease, even indifferent to the events around them. She herself had nodded and exchanged a few hellos with people in passing. Gawking former classmates became a rather boring sight after about three people had to be removed carefully by someone else, or she and Sherlock had to sidestep to avoid collision.

 

Yes, they definitely knew who Sherlock was. Then again, it wasn’t that long ago since his name made it onto the news. He had always been a household name, his rise and fall and rise again might as well have been the drama of the century. Molly couldn’t fault someone for staring at Sherlock and he didn’t seem to notice or even care that he had that effect on people around him. Instead, he dutifully helped her to her table.

 

Another thing which had escaped her – he had somehow got a hold of their table place card. Amidst her light-headedness and trying not to embarrass herself, Molly had forgotten to retrieve the card that was placed on the table when she took her name tag. Sherlock, as always, never missed anything – well, almost never.

 

“See anything?” Molly asked under her breath as she smiled to a woman she almost remembered. What was her name? Edna? Edith? She would have to ask later.

 

“Nothing of interest as of yet,” Sherlock replied just as quietly as he pulled the chair out for Molly when they reached their designated table. It was at the far end and hardly the best table in the room, but Molly couldn’t care less. They could’ve placed her near the toilet and she would be happy with it being the farthest seat from Alison and her minions. “But he’s here.”

 

To Molly’s relief, they were alone at the table. She sat comfortably as Sherlock claimed the seat next to her. She was thankful for the moment of silence that filled their space as they made themselves comfortable. Her eyes roamed, looking at everyone she used to go to school with as Sherlock fiddled with his cuffs.

 

She was hardly surprised; it didn’t look like much had changed. Some people had aged and looked better than others, but the cliques that were apparent in school didn’t look as they had disbanded. People still gravitated towards those they used to spend time with in their youth. Whether Molly would like to believe otherwise or not, the separation between worlds was obvious.

 

“Time to _mingle_?” Sherlock asked after what seemed like far too short of a time for Molly to acclimate to the situation at hand, putting air quotes around the word _mingle_ his fingers, prompting her to laugh.

 

“Yeah, why not. But I think I could use a drink first.”

 

Sherlock nodded in agreement. “I doubt anyone does these things sober.”

 

“And you said you’ve never done reunions,” Molly chuckled.

 

She was on her feet first and this time, instead of offering his arm, Sherlock found her hand easily and laced their fingers together. Molly tried her hardest to focus on anything other than how perfectly their hands fit into one another or how she could feel the imperfections and callouses on his palm. It was comforting to have Sherlock by her side as she faced this blast from her past. Not that she wanted to show him off or flaunt, no, but she realized there was no way in hell she could have done the evening alone without chickening out at the last minute and spending her time in her hotel room, ordering off the menu.

 

“I’ve done the Holmes family reunion,” Sherlock replied, shuddering at the thought.

 

Molly grinned at the statement. “They can’t be that bad.”

 

The look on Sherlock’s face was golden, leaving Molly snorting to supress a laugh. It might not have been a pretty sight because when she looked back at him, he was frowning.

 

“Sorry,” Molly apologized, unthinkingly.

 

“What are you apologizing for?” Sherlock bored his gaze onto Molly’s face. She flustered under the scrutiny, nearly running into the bar.

 

“I-I...” Molly hated how she was still tongue tied around Sherlock. They were friends, dammit, and there was a case at stake! Yet when Sherlock looked at her with genuine puzzlement in his eyes, she could feel her cheeks burning. She chanted in her head, reminding herself that this was Sherlock when he was on a case, especially an undercover one. He could be nice and act lovely when it was necessary. She had seen it all before. It was still difficult nonetheless.

 

So, instead of focusing on him, she turned to the bartender to order herself the strongest drink she knew she could stomach. She could act like she was in love with Sherlock, because that wouldn’t be a lie. It was the proximity that required a lot of drinking to lower her inhibition to stop her from flinching every time he touched her. Sherlock didn’t press the issue, ordering a drink for himself as Molly downed hers first.

 

“Molly Hooper,” a silken voice filled her eardrums, leaving her cold.

 

Slowly, Molly turned away from the bar towards the direction the voice was coming from. Sure enough, she came face to face with the one person she didn’t want to ever see again if she could help it. But it was a reunion, she reminded herself, and he had as much right as she did to be there.

 

“Shawn Hayes,” she relied stiffly.

 

Her cold greeting only seemed to egg him on further as a smile spread on the face of the man called Shawn. On Molly’s side, Sherlock was quick on his protective stance, placing his arm loosely around Molly’s waist.

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said without a prompt, holding his hand out to the man who had joined them. He had a look in his eyes Molly knew all too well. Sherlock was deducing him, deciphering every clue and coming to a conclusion all within that short period of introduction. Her reaction itself was a clue to him, she was sure of it. She chose to remain silent as Sherlock acted as her shield.

 

“Shawn Hayes,” the man replied. He stood arrogantly even though he was about three inches shorter than Sherlock. Molly realized he hadn’t changed, not one bit. The entitled attitude he had all through school was apparent his stance and how he shook Sherlock’s hand. His gaze told Molly he knew who Sherlock was as well, he just refused to acknowledge him. An egotistical bastard to the very end. Not even Sherlock’s ego was that big and his was huge. “Didn’t think you’d come, Molly. Or that you’d even bring a date.”

 

Molly clenched her teeth, willing herself _not_ to punch the arrogant sod. “Well, it’s the twenty-year reunion. I thought I shouldn’t miss it.” She decided to remain civil though she wished that she could’ve told herself to not give the buffoon the time of day. How she thought she was in love with him once was beyond her. There was no redeeming quality whatsoever when it came to the man.

 

She wasn’t that girl either. It had been years, and despite her many insecurities, she had come a long way. She knew that, she knew it better than anyone in the room. Unlike the majority of those who had shown up to relive their former glory, Molly had left school behind and made something of herself. Still, she couldn’t help feeling she was insignificant and small compared to those she very nearly forgotten after she left. Well, maybe she hadn’t quite forgotten Shawn. After all, it was never easy to forget your first love, as useless as they were.

 

“A lot of people didn’t think you’d show at all,” Shawn stated. “In fact, a number are pretty sure you’ve forgotten the school.” There was accusation in his voice and Molly didn’t like it one bit. He should have known why she left and never looked back. Of course, people like Shawn would never see it and Molly had given up trying to imagine the kind of justice she deserved for all the horrors he, Alison and her minions put her through. She was young and perhaps stupid, but at least she was honest with how she felt even then and she thought her feelings were reciprocated.

 

“I remember,” Molly stated acidly. “I just don’t spend every weekend reminiscing at a local pub.”

 

Sherlock was smirking; Molly could see it from the corner of her eye. Her friendship with Sherlock, Mary and John had certainly turned her into someone who could sass back when necessary. She wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing. The jury was still out.

 

“Oh, look at that. Miss Molly Hooper –” Molly could feel another taunt coming, but Sherlock interjected.

 

“It’s Molly Holmes now and Doctor Holmes to you. She spent years earning that title and she should be addressed properly.”

 

It wasn’t the first time Sherlock had corrected anyone for using the wrong title for her. He had always insisted she be called ‘Doctor’ and Molly almost always felt elated at the thought that it mattered enough to him to stop mid-deduction, most of the time, to point out the error of others. She had asked him why it was so important for people to address her correctly and his answer, though not romantic, was rather sweet.

 

_‘It’s a title you earned through years of hard work_.’

 

“Which one?” Shawn asked with an upturned smile that made him look like a cartoonish villain at best. Molly briefly amused herself at the idea of him as just that, but it felt like an insult to those characters, especially when they were capable to a point compared to Shawn, who never seemed to ride on anything but his looks and ability to boast. “Doctor or Holmes?”

 

Shawn Hayes clearly didn’t share Sherlock’s sentiment. Molly really didn’t expect much from a pig such as he was. Sadly, like Alison, it didn’t look like he had succumbed to the ravages of time and age. It wasn’t fair at all, though Molly was done feeling bad about it.

 

“Doctor,” Molly replied before Sherlock could. “I did go to medical school and went through quite a few years of internship. So yes, Doctor Holmes to you.”

 

It didn’t feel strange as the name rolled of her tongue. To tell someone else she was a Holmes, even if it wasn’t true, didn’t feel out of place. It felt just right, like she had been using the moniker for longer than a few hours.

 

Shawn smirked and leaned a little too close for Molly’s liking. “Well, Molly Hooper, all grown up, are we now?”

 

It took all of Molly not to shove the man to the floor. Tempting as it was, it would fall under causing a scene and seeing the reason Sherlock was there for a case, she wasn’t willing to compromise that even when she really wanted nothing more than to beat Shawn to a pulp. Maybe she could tell Mary later about the arse and get her to take him out.

 

“Unlike some,” she hissed under her breath instead.

 

Molly didn’t think it was possible to see Sherlock’s anger, the way it flared in his eyes when she turned her head away to avoid looking at Shawn. Sherlock Holmes was playing the part of a jealous husband far too well.

 

“I suggest you keep your distance from my wife,” Sherlock said, it was clear in his tone it was not an empty threat. “I’ve been told I’m the jealous sort.”

 

Molly was definitely willing to deal with Jim Moriarty all over again than to breathe the same air as Shawn and she was grateful for Sherlock’s heavily implied violence if Shawn failed to keep his hands to himself. She didn’t even want to ask Sherlock what he learned from the short time he spent reading Shawn’s body language. Perhaps she owed him an explanation after the end of the evening.

 

“Of course, Mr Holmes.” Shawn sniggered. “Looks like I’ve overstayed my welcome, Molly. I’ll see you around.”

 

He didn’t wait for acknowledgement, slinking away just as he had appeared earlier. Molly sighed, relieved that at least she didn’t have to bear a moment longer with Shawn, which she doubted she could’ve escaped if she were alone. Maybe she didn’t think it through when she thought she could do it alone. She couldn’t, and it wasn’t because she was weak. No, it wasn’t that. It was because Shawn was a snake through and through.

 

“Interesting,” Sherlock’s voice broke Molly out of her trance.

 

“What is?”

 

“What does your former boyfriend do for a living, Molly?” Sherlock asked and Molly mentally kicked herself. Of course, leave it to Sherlock to notice even that, though she was thankful he didn’t pry, even if she felt like he knew more given the way his jaw tensed even after Shawn left them.

 

“I honestly don’t know,” she replied. There was no lying to Sherlock and she had a feeling he might have been asking out of actual jealousy. “But he used to play football in school, under average academically. It’s curious he’s wearing a bespoke suit.”

 

Sherlock’s smile was wide. “And Italian leather shoes coupled with expensive accessories. How close would you say Mr Hayes and Mrs Goode were in school?”

 

“He does her bidding,” Molly answered, memories of her youth flooding to the front of her mind. She was indeed foolish to have not seen it when she was young. Or perhaps she just wanted to see the best in people; that hadn’t changed. She still wanted to see the good in people, but she had become a little wiser so as to not delude herself. It took a while, but she learned, so that she wouldn’t be fooled by another Shawn Hayes. “And her.”

 

“What he did was in view of his character, not yours,” Sherlock said, as if reading Molly’s mind. She smiled up to him, not knowing she needed to hear those words but glad for them all the same. “I should know.”

 

“You’re not so bad,” she told him, refusing to loop Sherlock into the same group as Shawn. There was no excuse for a lot of Sherlock’s behaviour, but his flirtation was nothing compared to what Shawn had done. She was always aware of where she stood with Sherlock. He made himself very clear despite his compliments to her. She always knew, but she allowed him to continue. After all, it was nice to receive a kind word every now and then. Sherlock was no worse than the people she had to deal with when she was in medical school, and cleaning up after him was actually therapeutic because it gave her an excuse to stay and linger in the morgue. Not that she would ever tell him that. His ego was huge enough in the first place.

 

Sherlock’s only reply to her statement was a small smile, the kind which held secrets that would take a thousand years to decipher. “He’s certainly engaged in sexual congress with more than one woman. There were two different strands of dark hair and red on his shirt.”

 

“No.” Molly gasped and giggled. “Oh, I suppose some people never change.”

 

“An unfortunate thing, but it’s common.” Sherlock nodded in agreement. “He dresses well and to impress, and he can pull off charming. Yet he wasn’t here to woo anyone. He wasn’t interested in the chase,” he rattled on under his breath. Molly opted to listen and stole a gaze at her former classmate who was now all the way across the room speaking to a group of people including the Goodes. “He’s also carrying a concealed weapon.”

 

“So either he’s Goode’s security or he’s here with the buyer,” Molly mumbled back at Sherlock, leaning to his side comfortably as he draped his arm on her shoulder. “I wonder if Mr Goode knows he does more than security.”

 

Sherlock snickered. “Oh, he knows.”

 

“Shit,” Molly swore, noting that the interest of the group at the far end of the room was on them. She cursed her luck for being spotted, though when she turned to Sherlock, he seemed indifferent and was grinning back at her. “They’re looking at us.”

 

“I guess we’ll have to put on a show,” he said, gently easing her into his arms and titling her head up. Before Molly could process her train of thought, she felt it. Sherlock’s lips were slanted, softly, on hers and her legs turned to jelly. What was left of her rational mind was screaming at the thought of kissing Sherlock, but even that part slowly surrendered to the sensation. And right before her mind short-circuited, a thought crossed Molly’s mind.

 

_Sherlock Holmes can kiss. Sherlock Holmes can_ more _than kiss._


End file.
